


Countdown to Hell

by ReinaZanahoria



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Az does Not Give A Flying Fuck About His Wings, Aziraphale dives headfirst into hell, Based on a Tumblr Post, M/M, Might get a little gay, TIDEPODS WILL FEATURE, What if Aziraphale lost a feather for every sentence he addressed to Crowley?, hopefully this will be funny, maybe very gay, what shenanigans will ensue
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-28
Updated: 2019-06-28
Packaged: 2020-05-28 10:40:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,060
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19392436
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ReinaZanahoria/pseuds/ReinaZanahoria
Summary: The apocalypse has ended and Heaven is pretty unhappy with Aziraphale's choice of companion. The sentence? For each sentence Aziraphale addresses to Crowley, one of his feathers will burn and turn black. First, our bastard angel tries to outwit ineffability (this is not wise). But what happens when he fails? Will he dive headfirst into damnation? Of course he will, but the fun is in the reading.





	Countdown to Hell

"I'm sure you can understand how embarrassing this is for us. For everyone upstairs, in fact,” said Gabriel. He stood comfortably, only the stiffness of his smile gave away his anger. Aziraphale hadn’t realised how cold a smile could be. The burning light of heaven kept his gaze down.

“So, you’ll understand that we had to take precautions. This can’t happen again.” Gabriel chuckled, but this was to Sandalphon.

Aziraphale nodded, the body language equivalent of agreeing to the terms and conditions. He didn’t want the precautions, but if this got him a step closer to leaving, so be it.

“Aziraphale, for each sentence you address to Crowley - you will lose one feather,” declared Sandalphon. The two smug angels exchanged glances and Gabriel stepped forward. He pinched the tip of Aziraphale’s wing. The angel winced. It burned bright hot and as he heard it sizzle, he turned to see a pitch black feather in his otherwise white plumage. The pain lingered and Aziraphale blew on it as he would on his hot cocoa. It did not have the same effect.

Gabriel smirked at Sandalphon. “That one’s free - just a, ha, warning shot.”

“You should be grateful really, if a human had been consorting with a demon in this manner, they would have been smitten much more severely,” said Sandalphon.

Gabriel leaned a little too close to Aziraphale’s face. “Well? A thank you would be nice.”

Aziraphale smiled, but only with his lips. “Thank you.”

* * *

A while later Aziraphale had drawn three mind maps, perused two books about the British Sign Language and one angry phone call to a shop regarding the purchase of a dry erase board where the shop keeper had requested he order “On the Line”. He sat at his desk in his bookshop, surrounded by scraps of paper. Yellowing memos clung to the walls through pure magic. He enjoyed putting up notes for himself, he clearly had never considered taking them down after though. One hovering over his head read, “Memo, 21/04/1921: find out if the Home Refrigerator can keep books from being spoiled”. 

He was an angel with a plan. The first step on the completed mind map was to figure out what counted as “A sentence addressed to Crowley”, if there was a way to avoid scorching his wings, then it would only be practical to do so. If not, well, there wasn’t a Plan B yet, but he was sure to think of something. The very first step of course, required summoning a demon.

He rang Crowley up.

“Hello, my dear! Ow! Come over to my bookshop! Ouch! No, I don’t have time to explain. Oh bother!” he shouted down the receiver, as three of his feathers went up in smoke. He threw the phone back down before the demon had time to protest.

A few beats passed as Aziraphale devoured the greetings section of the BSL book. The sound of a Bentley’s tires screeching against the asphalt outside his shop was heard. Then, a much quieter hum, the sound of rubber growing back.

The door swung open, and there stood Crowley. His face was dripping with sweat.

“Angel? I was worried.”

Aziraphale brought his left thumb up, tapped his chin with his right hand’s two fingers and pulled them away.

“Good afternoon?” repeated the demon, understanding the sign. He tipped his head quizzically at the angel. Then he smelled burning, Aziraphale’s face was screwed up. He was frantically patting his own back. It looked like he was in pain.

  
Crowley slumped down and buried his head in his hands. “You’ve gone mad! You lasted six thousand years, and now you’ve gone insane!”

The angel looked up from his smoking white jacket, he shook his head and picked up a pad of yellow sticky notes.  _ Not mad, I’m cursed _ , he wrote down. Then he arched his back and whimpered in pain.

“What’s the curse? A slipped disk? Can’t you just miracle it back?”

Now the room felt very cramped. It had felt cramped before, of course. Any space where every available spot that could fit one book had been stuffed with two books was bound to feel so. But now, in addition to two grown ethereal and occult creatures, there was a large set of wings. Crowley was not a claustrophobe by any means, but now, the books, teetering off bookshelves and ready to be knocked down any second, were looking quite threatening. He noticed the black feathers, scattered across the fluffy white wings. His sunglasses did not hide his expression.

“Ooh, that does not look good,” he said.

The room was, relatively, less cramped again.

“Yes, I must say it’s rather painful.” Aziraphale suppressed a cry of pain. Then his eye twinkled. New idea! He looked up at the ceiling, “What an interesting day I’ve had,” he said to himself, very loudly, “My feathers burn for every sentence I address to Crowley, but of course, talking to myself is fine.”

“Really?” said Crowley, “It’s working?” Aziraphale’s eyes danced around his face but made no direct eye contact.

“Oh wow,” said Aziraphale, making a point not to look directly at the grinning demon, “Talking to myself is so much less painful.”

He was wrong. Three feathers burned in unison, a corner of his jacket caught fire. Crowley jumped out of his chair and a flurry of memos flew after him. He patted down Aziraphale’s back.

“Ok, maybe we can figure this out. Did Gabriel and Sandalphon do this to you?”

The angel nodded. His shoulder started smoking. “Owie!”

“For Go- Sata- somebody’s sake! Nodding shouldn’t count as a bloody sentence,” cried Crowley, carefully patting Aziraphale’s shoulder now. The angel’s whole body was burning up. Which is, of course, what being set on fire would do to oneself.

“Maybe you should, ah, leave,” he glanced at the ceiling, then at his bookshelves. “This place… Well, you know. It’s quite flammable. I’ll think up something, I promise.” He clasped his hands together and gritted his teeth against the sensation of burning skin. “Maybe check the mail tomorrow.”

Crowley nodded solemnly, he stepped towards the door. “If you can’t find anything - I can just lend you some opioids - they tend to do the trick when it comes to pain.”

The angel closed the door behind him.  _ I might take you up on that _ , he thought.


End file.
